Luckiest Man Alive
by directedbysherlock
Summary: Greg Lestrade and Molly Hooper have been attracted to each other for ages, each too hesitant to say anything to the other. Until one fateful night at a pub things seem to move forward, but the next day Greg is injured. They realize life is too short to let love pass them by...


_I need you_

_Now_

_Accident and Emergency, St. Barts_

Molly read the text that had just come in from Greg Lestrade. Well, that was curt, she thought as she sniffed a little in indignation. Sounded like a bit of an order, actually. Which generally wasn't much like him at all. Strange.

She was just about done with cleaning up after a postmortem. Surely he could wait a few more minutes for her to look at those toxicology reports or whatever it was that he had waiting for her to review up in A & E. She glanced down at the plastic gloves on her hands covered in various unmentionable substances, and wondered with impatience why he didn't just come down to the morgue like he usually did, which would be a lot easier for her, instead of ordering her upstairs.

The phone chimed again.

_Please come_

She sighed. Well at least he said "please" this time. She stripped off the gloves and threw them into the biohazard bin, then picked up her phone to text back.

_Ten minutes_

He could jolly well wait until she finished, she thought to herself, penciling some notes into a chart. Not even five minutes passed before another text came in.

_Please hurry_

She sighed again and set down the chart. The notes could wait, she thought with some sarcasm, but apparently the DI could not. She texted back.

_On my way_

In the liftgoing up, she couldn't quite figure out why she was so irritated with Greg Lestrade today. He never normally irritated her; in fact it was quite the opposite. Every time he came around she immediately felt a jolt of pleasure to see his handsome face, loved to hear his voice say her name in greeting. A little frisson passed through her every time he invaded her personal space, which he seemed to find plenty of opportunity to do. She was smitten, but she couldn't tell if he had worked that out for himself yet. And she thought he felt the same about her, but that never seemed to be quite clear, either.

She had seen him just last night when a group of people from the Yard got together at the pub and she had been invited to come along. She and Greg had had a pint, squished into a booth next to each other. They had chatted about work, about the football match that was on the telly, the weather.

Anything other than about what was happening under the table.

As more people had crowded into the booth, the closer they were pushed together. After a while his knee lazily fell against hers. Soon after that the entire length of his thigh was up against hers. It drove her crazy, the feel of his warm leg, the way each of them could have moved away but didn't. The way his hand had suddenly come to rest on her knee, his fingertips just grazing the bare skin peeking out from under the sensibly long hem of her skirt, and how he very gently skimmed across the soft skin there from time to time. He never moved his hand any higher, just kept it there, in that erogenous zone somewhere between naughty and nice. It was maddening, how he would stroke her skin like that and just continue to keep talking to the other inspectors, not even looking at her, leaving her in breathless anticipation of what she hoped he might do next, her mind a blank except for that incredible feeling of finally being so close to him.

The tension between them was palpable when the group suddenly broke up and everybody moved outside together to get cabs for their separate destinations. He didn't touch her again, not even to simply tuck her arm companionably under his as they exited the pub. Neither did they speak to each other, both broodingly silent while the rest of the group chattered on boisterously. He hailed a cab for her and she got into the back seat and brushed past him as he held open the door for her, and she felt him stiffen in response, his jaw set. The look on his face was conflicted, but yet….she saw desire there, too.

He leaned in and for a moment she thought he was going to say something, or get in, or kiss her, or do something, anything…but he didn't. She was incredibly aroused and confused by their silent but unfulfilled flirting. She didn't know what to say or do, other than grab his arm and pull him into the cab to take him home with her, where things might go where they would between two willing participants...but she didn't. She remained just as stoically but silently conflicted and immobile as Greg Lestrade.

In the end, he just smiled a little ruefully as he stepped away and said softly, "Good night, Molls. Sweet dreams."

Later that night as she lay in bed in the darkness, plagued by frustration and insomnia, she clutched a pillow to her chest. Remembering the slightly scratchy feel of his light wool trousers against the bare skin of her leg, his warm heavy hand caressing her knee, how he smelled of smoke and a woodsy, masculine aftershave. How his hand trailed up higher, pushing the material of the skirt up as he went, burning a path on sensitive soft skin, her breath now coming out in short, quiet pants with her hands clenched in fists at her sides, her thighs suddenly clamping together around his fingers as she felt a shudder pass through her and her head rolled back against the back of the booth, trying to stifle a rising, keening moan so the others at the booth wouldn't know what he was doing to her…

She woke up suddenly in a damp sweat, another deep wave of shudders racking her, but found it was her own hand between her thighs instead of his and her bed sheet bunched up instead of her skirt. She cursed even as she savored the last intense throbs of her own release, rolled over, and tried to forget her dreams which had definitely been more salty than sweet, despite Greg Lestrade's parting words. He was the feature presentation in her dreams more often that she cared to admit.

Snapping back to the present in the lift, and after having mentally reviewed all the evidence which made her clench her hands at her sides all over again, Molly concluded it was no surprise that she was tired and more than a little irritated today. It always seemed like they were on the verge of something, last night more than ever before, but it never really tipped over that edge from their so-called friendship to something more. And if she was honest, she was equally irritated with herself. She was a grown woman and she could just as well make the first move if she wanted to, but her courage always failed her.

And now here he was, ordering her up to the A & E without so much as a simple "Good morning", even after everything that had passed last night, albeit she realized the better part of _that_ had been in her own head and that she was probably overreacting. Nevertheless, it was becoming almost as painful as it was pleasant to be around him, which was why she was dragging her feet now.

At the reception desk for the A & E, she casually asked, "Is DI Greg Lestrade here? He's expecting me."

The nurse checked her charts and said over her shoulder to another nurse, "There's someone here to see a patient, a Mr. Lestrade. Can you point her in the right direction?"

A terrible sense of dread suddenly overcame her, realization dawning. Greg Lestrade was not there for work, he was there as a patient. For God's sake, why hadn't he said so? She practically ran in the direction that the nurse pointed past bays with examining tables surrounded by billowing white curtains partitioning one area from another, which was confusing to her in her state of near panic. Everything now seemed to be in slow motion and it looked like some bizarre version of a blindingly white and sterile afterlife. She was not sure where to find him; some of the curtains were open and some were shut. She chewed her lip in anxiety, not knowing what to do. Just then, at the very back of the room, she caught a glimpse of a familiar head of silver hair.

The curtain was half open. He was sitting on a sturdy stainless steel examination table with his head down, staring at the floor and lost in thought. Shirtless. Molly's pace slowed down as the whole of the situation began to sink in. From a distance she could just make out the defined muscles in his arms and chest, noticed the masculine covering of hair that tapered to a V the lower her eyes went, which along with the planes of his abs disappeared into the waistband of his dark trousers. He was solid, fit, every inch a very attractive man. She'd only imagined what was under his suit, and now she knew the feel of the hard muscle of his thigh against hers had been a more than accurate preview.

As she stared, he reached over to his side and picked up a plain white shirt that he tried to put on, but he winced in pain as he rotated his shoulder. He set the shirt back down again, defeated. She blushed deeply as she came out of her trance and crossed the rest of the room.

"Greg?" she said, announcing her arrival as she stopped at the entrance of the half open curtains. "Can I come in?"

"Molly!" he said in relief, suddenly looking up. She could now see another bandage on his right temple. She quickly walked in, pulling the curtain shut behind her.

"Are you ok?" she asked, her throat dry, her heart beginning to speed up again. She wasn't sure if her suddenly very physical response was in reaction to his injury or his state of undress. Closer now, she could see there were a few cuts and scrapes on the side of his face, and a dark bruise was forming on his temple and also on his shoulder, which judging from his hampered movement had probably been dislocated.

"Oh Greg, what happened?" she blurted, not even waiting for his answer as she could now clearly see that he wasn't ok. She instinctively reached out to cup his face between her capable hands, inspecting the area with a practiced eye, gently tilting his head to catch better lighting.

"There was a bit of a scuffle during an arrest," he said, his head falling just slightly into her touch, as if giving himself up to her in complete trust and relief. He closed his eyes, then opened them again to look at her. His eyes were dark brown, so dark they were almost black. He looked sad and upset. "I shot someone today, Molly. At least, I might have, not sure who actually pulled the trigger."

Molly was beyond surprised, so much so she didn't say anything. He continued, his voice shaky. "He had a gun. We fought. I got my face slammed into the car a few times. About got my arm ripped out of its socket. While we were fighting the gun went off. I ended up here, but the other guy ended up in surgery. They say he'll probably make it." He paused. "I never wanted anything like this to happen. I don't want anyone to die because of me, even if he was an arsehole."

She was horrified at the thought of what could have happened to him. She did not wish harm to anyone else, but a thousand times over she was glad it had ended as it had, with Greg sitting right here in the emergency room, and someone else in surgery.

She could see his jaw working as he tried to maintain control. She had never seen Greg Lestrade look this uncertain or vulnerable, and she felt acute distress at seeing him in pain. She brushed a stray lock of hair away from his bandage, then let a hand drop gently onto his good shoulder, his skin hot to the touch.

"Why didn't you tell me? I would have run up here right away if I'd known you were hurt. I thought it was just business."

He took a deep, shuddering breath. "I don't know," he admitted. "I don't know what you...how you feel…I didn't want you to panic. I just know….I just know that I need you. With me here, right now. I _need_ you, Molls."

Their eyes locked, and her heart began to beat furiously. It was almost too intense, the feelings she had for him at just that moment. There were a hundred things she wanted to say, but she could not get the words to form a coherent sentence. She settled for practical action to break the silence.

"Come down from there," she finally said, her voice gentle, and stood a little out of the way for him to slide off the table to stand in front of her, wincing in pain with his movements. "Here, let me help you."

She stepped forward to take the shirt from his hands and walked behind him to hold it open. He was able to slide his arms into the sleeves without having to raise them, and she gently pulled it up to lay across his shoulders. Coming back around to stand in front of him, she flipped out a tip of the collar that was tucked under and smoothed it down. Then she slowly began to button up the shirt, starting at the bottom and working her way up. In contrast to his hot skin, her morgue-cold fingers brushed just above the waistband of his trousers and his stomach muscles rippled in response; she could feel his breathing quicken. He was quiet as he just let her do it, his eyes drifting shut.

She was incredibly aware of his exposed chest in front of her, nearly at eye level due to the difference in their heights. There it was again, smoke and woodsy aftershave, so uniquely Greg Lestrade. She could probably pick him out of a hundred people in the pitch dark by scent alone. Her buttoning slowed to a still as she felt his body heat radiating off of him. She'd felt it before, last night at the pub, and it had aroused her all night like it was arousing her right now. Suddenly she had to feel him, to know he was alive and standing in front of her, to do what she had not yet dared despite how he had touched her the night before. Her hand relaxed and slid up and under the material of his open shirt to lay flat against his chest, the hair springy under her palm. She started to move her hand, unable to resist exploring his muscled contours, until one of his hands suddenly came up to cover it and pinned it tightly against him, stopping her. She could feel his heart beating; strong, fast, faster.

"Do you have any idea what your touch does to me?" he finally asked, his voice low and husky, the beat of his heart becoming slightly erratic. "I've wanted you to touch me, for a long time now. And last night, I just couldn't stop myself anymore from touching you, I wanted to be closer to you."

She then felt his good arm slowly encircle her waist, pulling her against him. His head dipped down, close to her ear. "When that gun went off and I didn't know right away which one of us was hit, I only thought of you. I saw your beautiful face in my mind, and for a moment, I thought I might not live to see it again. I would have had a lot of regrets."

He pulled her closer still. "I regret that after we sat in that booth together like that all night, I didn't even kiss you goodbye. I regret even more that I didn't get into that cab with you. I kicked myself for it all night."

He brought her hand up to his lips, lightly kissed her fingertips, then the palm of her hand. Now his lips were feathering across her forehead, moving down to her cheek. Molly felt her knees go weak and she began to tremble, suddenly overcome by the knowledge that only an hour ago, she had not even known he was in danger, not even known the depths of her own heart, not even known her life might be on the verge of changing.

Wanting him, wanting her turn to taste and feel him, she stood on her tiptoes and kissed him lightly, gently, mindful of the cuts and bruises on his face, careful not to pull on his injured shoulder. But being careful was apparently not his priority; the minute her lips made full contact with his, he groaned deep in his throat and his lips moved over hers urgently, roughly. She was sinking, melting, falling deeper into him, his hands on her, all over her, so unexpected but so deeply desired, finally finding release to the tension that had been building between them for months.

After a few minutes, she could not have said how many, he pulled away slightly, his hand stroking through her hair at the back of her head, his fingers tangling in the silky strands. "That's not all, Molls. I would have regretted most not having told you how I feel about you. Surely you must know how I feel by now. I need you, I want you," he said, his breathing quick and uneven. "But it's more than that, so much more than that. I'm in love with you, Molly Hooper."

"I...I didn't know," she stuttered, overcome with surprise, then filled with a rising elation. An understanding that she felt the same.

"Then I'm sorry for that, Molls. Sorry you didn't know. I'm sorry for everything I should have done or said and didn't. Since my divorce...I've been…hesitant. Afraid to get hurt again. Will you forgive me for being such a stupid, stupid man?"

All this time, he'd been right there. Wanting her, like she wanted him. They had silently but steadily crept into each other's hearts, each afraid to take the risk to move things forward. She'd been hesitant, too, what with a broken engagement in her not too distant past. What a ridiculous, cautious, obstinate pair they had been...until now. She could hardly believe it had taken this near tragedy to bring them together.

"There's nothing to forgive," she said, her heart full. "I might have said something, too, and I didn't. But that's all in the past now." Her hand snaked up and curled around his neck, bringing him down to her again, lips almost touching but not quite. "I'm in love with you, too, Greg Lestrade."

He made a sound that rumbled deep in his chest, his pleasure at hearing her words evident, his hands tightening around her waist as he pulled her as close against him as was possible.

"I'm truly the luckiest man alive," he said quietly, just before their lips met again.


End file.
